Silence and Cinnamon Buns
by turtle53
Summary: The silence kills him, and she knows how to help.


George hates silence.

It takes over, filling him from the inside out. He can feel it deep within him, the lack of noise, and it hurts. It hurts more than he thought it would, and he hates it.

She doesn't mind all that much, but then, she wouldn't, would she? She isn't used to the explosions, the scuffles, the jokes, and the laughter that used to fill his ears day in and day out. It isn't abnormal for her to spend her days in silence. It's what she's used to doing.

He hasn't gone back to the Burrow yet, and he doesn't plan on it anytime soon. He locks himself in his flat, going over stock and order forms for the shop. It's silent there too, but at least here he can pretend that Fred is downstairs, helping a customer or performing some trick for Verity.

His mother won't stop owling him: come over for dinner, the family misses him, she just wants to see him, he can't hide forever, he doesn't have to be alone.

But Mrs. Weasley doesn't understand that he isn't lonely, or alone. He is _empty_, half of him is missing and he is never going to get it back, no matter how many experiments or magic tricks he does. It isn't about wanting to be by himself or ignoring his family, it's that even with all the people, relatives and friends alike, it's still too quiet at the Burrow.

Luna knows what it's like when the silence first closes in. It has been years—eight and counting—since she heard the last cheer from a completed experiment or explosion from one gone wrong, but she remembers what it is like. She sees what he needs her to see, what he has been waiting for someone to see since they buried Fred and the quiet took over for good. He doesn't want someone to talk to, or tell him that it will be all right in the end (it won't, it never will, _the end_ has already come for him). He needs noise.

She starts to show up at his apartment. She never says anything to him except maybe a "Good morning" or "Breakfast is on the table—I hope you like cinnamon buns!" and nothing more, not directly to him. She lingers, providing small sounds and background noise that seem so loud at first that it's irritating. He wants to tell her to go home, leave, find something else to do with her spare time but when he turns to look at her he finds she's ignoring him completely, her eyes trained on his bookcase or the magazines he's left lying around.

She is there before he wakes up and doesn't leave until he has fallen asleep. He can hear her before he has fully opened his eyes in the morning, banging around in the kitchen or sliding her feet across the carpet in the living room, waiting for him to emerge so she can reach out a finger and shock him. The noise doesn't bother him anymore and at times, it is still far too quiet for him.

There are a few days when she can't be there first thing in the morning, or she has another obligation to fulfill during the day and she has to leave before he has fallen asleep. He can't help it; he cries because it reminds him of what he has lost and how pathetic he has become that he constantly needs someone around. She finds him every time, sprawled across the couch with a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand, the glass on the table forgotten. His sobs are the only thing interrupting the silence and so she turns on the radio and the coffeemaker and nudges him into a sitting position, takes the Firewhiskey and dumps it down the drain (the way she always does, but he always seems to procure more) and sits beside him. She takes his hand in hers and talks to him, telling him stories that she is sure to include loud sound effects with, _bangs!_ and _bams!_ and the occasional _boom!_ And eventually he stops crying and nods off on her shoulder, the alcohol and tears having exhausted him, and when he wakes up in the morning he is still on the couch and she is once again in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards in a way that would suggest the layout of the room is new to her, though she knows it better than her own kitchen by now.

He starts to make appearances in the shop. Once a week, at most, in the beginning. She is always there, looking at products and testing them out. She installs a much louder bell above the door; he can hear it no matter where he is in the store, and even in his apartment, if he pays enough attention.

There is always a shopper who wants to talk to him, express their regrets at the loss of his twin and how he always made them laugh and on and on until he wants to leave, regardless of how rude it is. But she appears next to him and slips her hand into his, giving it a small squeeze, before saying something about a nargle infestation in the back room and he can make his excuses and leave for a proper reason.

There is a shrine of sorts in the front window. A picture of Fred is in the center and around it are notes friends have left, all addressed to Fred and saying things like "That prank you pulled in fifth year was hilarious. I'm still laughing!" He doesn't know when it happened, or whose idea it was, but it was there when he came down the first time and he doesn't know how he feels about it. It's a good memorial, to be sure, but it means admitting that he is gone for good and isn't just hiding in the back room, devising a new joke item for their shop. Verity offers him a piece of parchment and a quill but he can't bring himself to write a note yet.

Someone has made a statue, more of a glass figurine really, of Fred, and placed it behind the picture. It looks exactly like him, like them, but without the coloring; everything else is there though: the height, the longish hair, the broad shoulders and it's like he has been frozen and transformed into the transparent, hard object George sees before him every day.

When he hears the crash, his heart stops. He turns around slowly, thinking that it couldn't have happened, anything else he would accept but not that, not the statue.

And then he sees her by it, a shocked look on her face, already spewing apologies. He has never heard her sound so frantic before; it's a far cry from the Luna Lovegood he knows, never ruffled by anything.

But it doesn't stop him from being angry and before he can stop himself he is towering over her and yelling, yelling because she broke Fred, she broke _him_, wasn't it bad enough he was dead, did she have to _shatter_ him and he keeps going until he sees the first few tears spill from her too blue eyes. He stops abruptly and stares at her, before taking his wand and turning promptly on the spot.

It isn't her he is angry at, anyway.

He pushes the front door of the Burrow open and hurries through the house, ignoring the surprised looks and calls of greeting from his family members. A few follow him as he makes his way up the stairs, but most stay where they are because they have seen the look in his eyes.

Their room is exactly the same as they left it over a year ago. The books are in the same position, the rubbish bin is overflowing with crumpled bits of parchment, the beds unmade. And he was right, it is far too quiet here for him, and so he does what Luna has been doing for months. He makes noise.

The books clatter to the ground and the few Skiving Snackboxes that are left tip over, spilling the disastrous sweets across the floor. Bed clothes are tossed around and figurines are thrown. There is even an explosion as he points his wand at the wastebasket, and the pieces of parchment are blown all over the room. He is being destructive and he knows it but he doesn't care because he feels better amidst all the sound back in the place that was never supposed to be silent.

His wand is plucked from his hand by someone's much smaller fingers and he stares down at her incredulously. He has been going for a good ten minutes and so far no one but she has stepped in. He suddenly feels so tired, no longer running on anger.

"It sure isn't quiet in here anymore, is it?" She asks in her dreamy voice, with her blithe smile.

He stares at her.

This is what she has been working to all along, he thinks. He has to make his own noise now. He has to do things and _deal_ with things.

"No, it's not."

She smiles up at him, taking his hand. She leads him out of the house and apparates him back home, where he will join her in searching the kitchen for the correct tools to make cinnamon buns.


End file.
